


Vendetta: Awakening

by TheLadyFrost



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Modern Retelling, Movie: Resident Evil: Vendetta, Post-Resident Evil 6, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 12:06:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17043419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyFrost/pseuds/TheLadyFrost
Summary: Four heroes. A virus. A city without a prayer. A scientist with a spine of steel, a battle hardened warrior, a legend lost in the dark, and a woman with nothing to lose. Together they'll take on the toughest fight they've ever faced...and find what matters in the blood of battle. (Vendetta AU freestyle romance with canon ties) RebeccaxChris, LeonxJill.





	1. Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

"When I was a kid, I used to think about the kind of man I'd grow up to be…I never thought my life would turn out this way…" - Leon Kennedy

Chicago –

Great Lakes University: Department of Virology, 2016

"What are you saying here, Professor?!"

The pixie pretty face looked up from her cup of steaming java chip latte. She was grinning huge and excited. The little lab coat she wore emphasized the ageless beauty of her. She might have been fifteen, she might have been fifty. Hers was the kind of birdlike sweetness that transcended long after traditional Hollywood beauty had fled.

And her excitement was contagious.

"I'm saying I've started simulating a vaccine."

Curious, the companion to the pretty thing lifted a rueful brow. "A vaccine? When you don't even know what the virus is?"

The adorable grin on her elfish face was infectious…sort of like the virus she was studying. "Oh yeah. Haven't we met? I'm Rebecca Chambers. I'm kinda a genius."

The laughter was loud in the small lab. The gathering of people increased to stare at the plethora of data that was wheeling over the small screen. Rebecca gestured with one long, piano playing finger. "That's right, feast your eyes on the future kids. A potential vaccine for the A-Virus. Anyone want to be a test subject?"

Just like that, the gathering dissipated. Amused, she watched all the labcoats flee like the building was on fire. Even her erstwhile suitor, Roger, fled like she'd farted on him. Rebecca chuckled a little and turned back to watch the data loop and flash.

She didn't know all the pieces to the puzzle. Not yet. But she was learning it, quickly.

It was time to send off a report to the World Health Organization and inform them of the progress. It was time to let the world know that there was hope. She sent the email and sipped her latte and loved the pride that came with each minty swallow.

And she had no idea the horror that one simple email would bring down upon her.  
....

Washington D.C.

Ground Zero, Post Explosion – 2016

"I can't find any survivors! I can't find any one! Are they all gone?!"

"I don't know! I don't know! Keep digging in the rubble! Oh my god…oh my GOD…the whole SWAT team!?"

"No. NO. Just keep looking, John ok? Keep looking."

Movement. Shifting.

The dark and the pain eased around the voices. The cold was insane. The air on his face was the first sign…that he was STILL ALIVE.

"Oh my GOD!" Hands on his face. He was being rolled over. There was a shimmer of light as his eyes flickered.

The face in his vision…beautiful. Beautiful and unfamiliar.

Someone pumping on his chest and breathing into his mouth. And the world SNAPPED as he came back into his head and his body. He gasped, bowing, and the person exclaimed in relief.

Blue and gold. The shimmer of smoke and debris and despair around her. Her voice as her hands stroked his face. "He's alive! Get the fucking medic!"

"Who is it? Swat?"

The voice blocked the halo of light from around her head and irritated his semi-conscious mind. He grunted in disapproval. The voice echoed around them now and hurt his ears. "No! Holy shit! It's Kennedy right?! Leon Kennedy?! The director of the DSO?"

"Yes." Her voice. Her hands on his face. "Leon? Can you hear me?"

His voice was gravely but there. "Yeah…yeah I can hear you."

"Ok, alright. You're alive. The bomb…it decimated everything it touched. You're alive. How?"

He was shaking. She gathered him closer to hold him still. "….hid. Took cover. Van."

And now he could see her SMILE. Her SMILE. It made him warmer. She breathed, "Yeah you did. You hid. You did that. Survivor right? Smart guy. Saved your fucking life. You're the only one to make it. I'm going to make sure you don't die, Leon Kennedy. We've never met before. But us survivors? We have a way of finding each other."

He grunted and turned his face. It slid over her throat and he could smell her. She smelled like lilacs…and light. And fire.

His voice dragged out of his chest. "Who are you?"

The press of that mouth to his ear. The press of that gold on his skin.

The pain of knowing he was the ONLY ONE LEFT. "I'm Valentine. Jill Valentine. A shitty way to meet, Mr. Kennedy. But a good day to be alive. Stick with me, and I'll make sure you stay that way."

The ONLY ONE LEFT…it chased him down into the cold as the pain took him under.

And Jill Valentine's hands on his face offered little solace.  
.....

Queretaro Region –

Mexico-

San Juan del Rio, 2016

The effervescent night sky was disrupted by the rapid thunder of helicopter blades. The clouds met the whirring strength of each slice and dissipated, offering the view of the moon glimpsed vaguely within the milky depths. The quiet dark heralded the witching hour to the curious crew aboard the reflective vessel.

There was no peace in the dead of the night for those who waited within the small chopper. There was only preparation. There was on expectation of battle. There were only tremors of fear and discomfort. Nearly all of the small fighting force within the chopper was wet behind the ears about what they faced.

All were nervous about the unknown enemy that awaited their arrival. All…but one. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been afraid of anything. It had been so long that fear was nearly as foreign to him now as the country he was currently in. The terrain beneath them was almost as much a mystery as nervous expectation. He hadn't been afraid in so long that even the word rang false on his ears.

It had been too long and he was too old to be afraid anymore.

The heavily accented voice of an eager recruit told the quiet interior who the man was. The voice of an excited puppy laden with a thick Spanish lilt, "Yo! You're Chris Redfield, yeah? The big hero? The Raccoon City guy?"

He shoulder bumped the man beside him, "This is Chris Redfield! You know?"

The other man looked over with interest. Both were so young. Chris wondered if, when added together, they would even equal him in age. They were both eager and fresh faced. The first one that had spoken to him had a snappy little grin that was part hero worship, part infectious good will.

The other was big eyed with glasses and a small mustache. Again, he speculated that they were both barely out of highschool. If either was old enough to buy a beer at a bar, he'd eat his assault rifle.

The first man added, "Any advice on killing the undead? They say you're a legend. That you killed like a thousand zombies with a handgun and a shovel."

Chris shook his head, smiling a little. His gloved hands held the assault rifle loosely. He was geared differently than the rest of the paramilitary force that was accompanying him. International red tape had prevented him from bringing his own team on the rescue mission turned snatch and grab. So he was working in conjunction with local forces to bring in the target and secure the hostages. It rankled and didn't feel promising.

The team was young, for starters, undertrained to boot and clearly untested against B.O.W.S. He was going in with a handful of babies, a few nervous nellies, and a whole lot of cannon fodder. What choice did he have? The suggestion of going in alone had gotten him shouted at from the rafters. H.Q. was itching to smack him around for even offering it.

They were already one undercover agent down. God forbid he went in alone and got himself killed. The BSAA would never live it down. The "legend" killed playing lone ranger? Leon Kennedy would laugh him off the map for it. Kennedy was the only idiot that ever seemed to go in under gunned and alone and come out smelling like roses.

Chris wore his BSAA uniform topped by a bullet proof tactical vest and gloves. The other members of the team were in full riot gear from masks to boots to shields. For all the good it would do them, he appreciated the effort.

Chris shifted a little where he sat, "Listen…" His voice was gravelly and thick, highlighted by a face lined with age and experience. It wasn't a classically handsome face. It was a heavy jaw liberally scattered with a nearly full beard, which tended to happen after a week and a half of not shaving, and the suggestion of something dark and probably ethnic in his background. The name, Redfield, was English and simple. The heritage with the name was long and boring. But somewhere, at some time, somebody not so boring had lain down with something dark and exotic and walked away with a baby. It was evidenced in his gypsy dark looks and the swirling blue of his eyes. The eyes were lovely, topped by thick long lashes and heavy flattering brows. The lines that fanned out from them put him on the far side of thirty, potentially the early side of forty, and told the story of laughter, loss, and survival as did the scars that peppered over his neck and left ear.

Beneath the gear, the body was big and muscled, hairy and hard. The scars were plenty, the battles that had bestowed them legion, and the victories earned. He'd gone in, survived, and saved the day more often than he'd lost. The losses were there, and haunted him, but he'd kept on going. He'd been down, way down, and come out the other side. He kept on going. It was how he honored the ones he'd lost.

He just kept going.

He did so now, hoping to encourage those around him to do the same. "You got family?"

The eager one beside him nodded, "You bet. Gotta wife. Sister. Overly protective mother."

Grinning a little, the eager guy got an elbow bump from his cohort and a chuckle. Chris didn't echo the smile. He nodded a little and answered that amusement, "Yeah? What we're up against here? These guys have one agenda: to see your world in their image. They don't care about your wife. Your mother. Your sister. Your fucking dog. You keep in this line of business? You're gonna have one thing happen. Just one."

The eager guy didn't look happy now. And the rest of the team was passing attention now too.

Chris finished the statement, "You're gonna come up against the question of who lives and who dies. You or all those people you love. Because you'll lose them. In this business? You'll lose every single one. So chuckle about it all you want. Talk about the legend. Laugh with your friends. But it ends with everyone you love dead. And the only thing you have left is revenge."

The other guy beside the eager one whispered, "Hijo de la chingada…why do it man?"

Chris held his nervous gaze, no flinching. "Because I've got nothing left to lose."

At the front of the chopper, the leader started talking. "We're approaching the objective. The mission parameters are clear: assist the BSAA in locating and acquiring the bioterrorist Glenn Arias."

Chris took up the charge, lifting his device in his palm to show data to the soldiers on the chopper. "Arias is a black market mass destruction weapons dealer. He'll deal it dirty, deal it quick, and to anyone who ponies up the dough. He started in guns, moved into explosives and heavy munitions, and has recently branched into bioorganic weapons or B.O.W.S. One of the BSAA's undercover agents: Cathy White and her son Zack have gone missing. Intel suggests that Arias has taken them hostage. The reason is unknown. But the objectives are clear: rescue Cathy White and grab Glenn Arias."

He shifted and rose to hold onto to the roof of the chopper. All eyes were on him now. Chris continued his briefing, steady and simple. "The BSAA sent me in to extract White. You won't find anyone with more knowledge of BOWS then me. I don't have the time or opportunity for some long lecture on the whys and wherefors here. So I'm gonna cut to the chase: aim for the head. If it's undead, if it's inhuman, if it's a dog or a frog or a fucking bunny rabbit – shoot it in the head. Disabling the brain stem is the only way to put down the walking dead. In the case of something like a hunter, or a BOW that is part man part monster, the face is still vulnerable. If there's no face? You have two choices –"

One of the female soldier's broke into his diatribe, "Run or die?"

And the chopper laughed nervously around them.

Chris nodded, stoic. "Yeah. Run or die or keep on shooting. So, maybe you have three choices. I will emphasize the importance of staying together. Don't turn your back on your team. Don't get nervous and shoot your companions. And don't go in there expecting anything human. Think of your worst nightmare, and expect that it might be in that building. Figure out that you'll be fighting for your life, and you'll just about be ready for anything."

The helicopter taxied down and landed gently in the wet grass.

The doors opened and the roar of the blades filled the air around them. The wind kicked up and tossed hair and clothing as they leaped free in pairs and threesomes. Chris took up the rear as they moved through the long dark.

The forest spilled around them in eerie shapes and sounds. A glance at his watch told him the witching hour was upon them. And in the distance, the rotting carcass of what might have once been a great mansion awaited them.

He considered it, watching the moon shimmer on the broken windows and along the peeling paint and he sighed a little. After all these years, couldn't a fucking bad guy…just once…not hide out in a creepy mansion? Just once? Was that too much to ask?

He gestured with his head and the team took up cover in the trees, watching the long two story mansion that awaited their assault.

Chris Redfield hadn't been afraid in a long time. He couldn't remember the last dose of it. Maybe it had been when Jill had gone out that window. Maybe it had been in Africa when Albert Wesker had come down those stairs. Maybe it had been when his team had gone down and turned in Edonia. Maybe. He couldn't remember anymore.

But something niggled in his throat as he looked at the specter of that mansion in the muted moonlight; something that might have suggested concern. Instinct? Or paranoia?

There was only one way to find out.

He signaled with his head and moved forward to confront that feeling. It was the only way he did things: he just kept going even when all his instincts were screaming for him to turn back.


	2. Chapter 2

ONE:

ARIAS  
....

"When I was a kid, I used to think about the kind of man I'd grow up to be…I never thought my life would turn out this way…" - Leon Kennedy  
...

Washington D.C.

John F. Kennedy Memorial Hospital– 2016  
.....

"Has he woken up yet?"

There were shifting shadows beside his bed. His ears were hearing. His brain hadn't yet made sense of it.

The soft voice of the nurse answered, "No. They reversed the coma yesterday. The swelling is down and he seems to have full function of the arm."

"Brain damage?"

The nurse's voice again, "No. No signs of it. He took a hard hit to the head, for sure. But he seems to be fine now. It's probably the drugs keeping him under for the moment."

There was a shift of movement again above him. And that voice came, gentle, but commanding, "Mr. Kennedy? It's Jill Valentine. I need you to open your eyes for me."

His lids fluttered. He liked her voice. His eyes opened, blood shot, but clear. She touched his face in the dark, punctuated only by the light from the hallway.

"Mr. Kennedy - you gave us all a scare. Your throat will be sore from the intubation. Do you know where you are?"

He licked his cracked lips. His throat was so dry. His voice was hoarse, "D.C."

"Yes. Exactly." She shifted. Blonde hair trailed over her forehead from her bangs. She poked it behind her ear, smiling at him, "How do you feel?"

His laugh was as dry as his mouth, "Dead."

"You're not, I assure you."

He shook his head. He closed his eyes briefly, "No...my men are. All my men are dead."

The bed sank. The hand on his face stroked, gently. He opened his eyes again.

And she was sitting beside him on the bed. Her voice was cool and supportive and strong, "Not all of them. You're still here, Mr. Kennedy. Still here. All you can do now? Is honor them by living."

It was a good thing to say.

A good thing.

And something he'd said once to a man who'd wanted to die and end his suffering.

Before Leon had shot him and severed the plagas in his body...and left him paralyzed from the waist down forever.

Honor them, he'd said, by living.

Leon made a small sound of pain. Jill shifted and pressed on his chest and shoulder, "It's ok. It's alright. You fractured your collarbone and broke your arm in three places when the debris crushed you down. You're ok. I promise. It'll heal."

Leon shook his head, gently. "Will it? Fuck. What am I doing here? You should have left me in the fucking rubble with my men."

She eyed him, coolly and answered, "Don't be a coward. And don't talk like that ever again. You know what we do. You know why we do it. You know why we have to get up and keep doing it. Fall down, hurt, and get back up, Mr. Kennedy. The world can't save itself."

He laughed, lightly and humorously, "I can't save the world, Ms. Valentine. I'm just the idiot that trusted the wrong guy."

She touched his chin and held it, hard, when he tried to look away. Entranced, he kept staring at her.

She said, sharply, "I'm the idiot that jumped out a window and died to fail at killing the wrong one. I get it. I get it. But don't. Don't self destruct. Mourn it. Learn from it. Ache with it. And get back up. Don't let your story end with a pistol in the mouth. You're too good for that. For every person you lose, there's thousands you've saved. Remember that - and get back up."

He smiled, lightly. His hand turned over on the bed and she gripped it, palm down.

Leon whispered, hoarsely, "I need to go see them. I need to make sure they're...at peace."

She understand that. She did. Hadn't she done the same with Brad Vickers in Raccoon City? Hadn't she done the same in the Mansion each time she'd seen a fallen teammate?

And so she answered, "I'll go with you, Mr. Kennedy."

He was so used to being alone. He didn't know what it meant that he wasn't anymore.

He whispered, "It's Leon, Ms. Valentine. Just Leon."

"Just Leon...all my friends call me Jill."

"Are we friends now?"

She held his eyes in the quiet darkness, "We're about to go put down your brothers in arms together, Leon. I'd say that makes us pretty fucking good friends."

His fingers slid between hers and held.

And he'd never agreed with anything more in his life.  
.......

Queretaro Region –

Mexico-

San Juan del Rio, 2016  
........

The world narrowed. It went small and swiveling.

It was man vs man. Mano-a-mano.

It was hero vs villian.

Age old combat. Age old story. Age old underdog meant to rise again.

His men were dead. His team was gone. His body was broke and sore and bleeding. He'd lost his gun and was done to his last knife.

He could run. He could turn tail and flee. Lesser men had done it. Lesser men had lived to tell the tale of the battle they'd lost.

He was Chris Redfield.

He didn't run.

He didn't even know how to run.

His fingers curled around the hilt of the knife and lifted it in a defensive position.

Amused, the man across from him grinned happily. Glenn Arias.

For a moment, in the beginning, hunting Arias had been business. It was just what you did when you were the good guy. You took down the bad guy. But now?

Now it was personal.

Now it was done.

Chris spit the words between his teeth in the rolling darkness. The handsome face of the killer in front of him was mocking above the natty little top coat and tie he wore like a prince. "You bastard. Having a good time?"

"Oh, monstrously, I assure you. I enjoyed killing your men. I don't generally, as a rule, I prefer to sell death as opposed to deliver it myself...but alas, you left me little choice," He sounded so reasonable. So polite. Just two guys having a friendly chat on a windy night.

Inside the mansion behind them, all those men had died in a blood bath. Things like Chris had never seen had erupted in naked bone and gore, in blood and horror, to eat them in a screaming, swirling, handful of minutes that he could hardly believe.

Twenty five men, dead.

The boy, Cathy's son, turned and infected. He'd raced. He'd snarled.

Chris had tossed a grenade into the room and slammed the door to hear him explode.

Burst of light, brush of blood, gush of breath and explosion.

Silence.

Horror.

Hate.

It boiled in him now like lava.

"Enough gossiping like little girls. Finish it." Chris snarled it and waited.

Arias shrugged boredly and lifted the gun he'd claimed.

The first half of the battle was his, no question. Chris had landed from a desperate jump through the window. He'd risen to find Arias waiting for him.

Hand to hand, Chris Redfield was unstoppable. Unbeatable. Unbelievably fast, trained by some of the best in the world. Glenn Arias had made it a comedic sport to kick his ass.

A roll, a dive, a drop and a kick. A slap to the face that smarted and stung in the pride and the soul. He'd punched and deflected, kicked and bested, and driven Chris across the grass with barely breaking a sweat.

They faced each other now. Arias with the empty rifle. Chris with his knife.

It didn't scare him.

He'd faced worse odds in his life.

He'd stood at the bottom of a volcano versus the mutated body of his former Captain. He'd won that battle. And he'd never been more of an underdog.

They moved, in tandem, two men with nothing to lose.

A swipe, a step, a spin. Arias hit him in the chest with the rifle but his vest absorbed the blow. He hooked left, ducked right, and the blow sent the white haired man staggering. He tossed an impression smile over his shoulder and circled back.

"Anger makes us strong it seems. Tell me, Chris is it? What's worth fighting for? Your men are dead. Your job is lost. Give up. And go home alive."

Chris feinted back as the gun swooped over his head. He rolled under the next swipe and spun the blade in his had. It arced, it twirled almost like a dance, and sliced clean through the tie of the man facing him.

Arias spun back, laughing now. "Brave and stupid. Such is the way of things. Alright then, no more playing it seems."

He drove the gun toward Chris' face and the other man went right, thrust the knife at his gut, and got the butt of the rifle to the jaw for it. There was a flash of pain, a gasp of surprise as the knife sunk into Arias' side in the rush of it. And Chris reeled back.

He turned to avoid a punch to the face, Arias whipped him in the arm with the gun and he lost the knife, the wet pop of his shoulder signaled Chris was now down an arm, and Arias kicked him in the ass for it. Chris' arm, dislocated now, dangled and he tried to sweep a kick - but Arias grabbed at his thigh holster, pulled his side piece in the thick of the moment, and shot him twice in the back.

The gun echoed in the quiet night.

The vest took the hit but it hurt like a buffalo kick.

Chris went down on his face in the dirt. His dead arm flopped uselessly and he grabbed it with his other hand, binding it to his chest to brace it.

Above him now, Arias tilted his head like a dead, "Uncle?"

Chris spit at him again, at his feet, "Son of a bitch. Finish it."

"Hmm. I'm a business man, Chris, that's it. Really. Just a business man. I make quality products available to capable buyers for a reasonable price. It's not personal. It's business. In fact...the annoying part here is that I have to move my business now because of you. So, for that, I think you see what your arrogance has bought you."

The shadows shifted.

Bane from Batman came out of them.

No. Not Bane.

But close.

Beside him was Trish from Devil May Cry.

No. But close.

On the ground, Chris hissed, "What is this? A fucking video game? What's next? Pyramid Head?"

Arias laughed, delighted. But it wasn't Pyramid Head. It was Cathy White.

Dead.

Cathy - infected.

She rolled to her back, laughing. Her hair spilled dark in the sunlight. It left the shadows on her face like kisses of color.

"Stop. I mean it. Don't take my picture."

Her mouth was soft beneath his.

"Why? Afraid I'll put it on Instagram and Zack will see it?"

"Not Zack; no. But John? Maybe. Maybe John. You think I want him showing up here in a jealous rage?"

He laughed. She shifted to let him closer to her. Her hands gripped in his hair.

"I can take John White. You kidding me? He's a gym teacher."

"Oh, yeah? According to my Facebook page: I'm a Scientist."

"What? Do a status update and change it to: Secret Agent. Why hide it? Let the world know."

She laughed, eyes soft and beautiful. He kissed her again, light. And she remarked, "You're an idiot, Chris Redfield. I'm only sleeping with you because you're my boss."

"Sexual harassment hard at work folks."

He snapped the picture with his phone. She laughed and hugged him.

It was the last time he'd see her alive.

On the ground, frozen, aching - he breathed, "Cathy? Cathy! Why?!"

Above him, Arias smiled sweetly, "You know why. Of course, you know why. Her name was Sara. She was my world. And now? I've taken yours. The thing about my products, Chris...is they know the difference between friend..." He touched Cathy's rotting face and she didn't care. She didn't bite him. She just stood there snarling like a dog.

A dog on a chain bound by Bane from Batman.

Flanked by Trish from Devil May Cry.

While Chris Redfield lay on the ground bleeding and dead inside.

A video game indeed. The kind where the hero loses.

And there's no hope left.

"...and foe...my gift to you...for Sara...farewell."

The chain was jerked free. Bane and Trish and Arias walked casually among the dead that began to pour out the building around them until they were swallowed up by the smoke.

Cathy snapped her jaws. She staggered and hunched, hissing and jerking spastically. She came at him slowly, hungry and moaning.

Chris tried to crawl over the ground. He pushed to get to his feet and his leg he'd enjoyed in the fall protested it and spilled him back down.

So, this was it. This was how he died, his face eaten by his former lover.

His team dead.

The good guys had to lose sometime, it seemed. Why not tonight?

Helicopter blades whirred. They swirled the air and the dirt around him.

The sound of a heavy machine gun firing up drew his attention.

Two feet from him, Cathy was blasted by 50mm fire. She was blown back and off her feet. She was thrown to the ground in a bath of blood. The rest feel easily, moaning and dropping. The gun took out Arias storehouse beside the mansion. It erupted in a geyser of flame and failure.

The night was burning around him now. The world was on fire.

He crawled to Cathy.

He turned her in his arms.

"Tell me this doesn't end badly, Chris Redfield."

In the alley, a little drunk, his hands on her face to kiss her. The man who never touched his co-workers. The guy who never crossed the lines.

"It ends with us together, Cathy. Stop fighting. Sometimes? You just have to give in."

Her eyes stared blindly from the bloody mask of her face.

Dead for Sara.

Dead for revenge.

There was no where on Earth Arias could hide now. Nowhere.

Chris Redfield had chased Albert Wesker for over a decade to stop him. He didn't run. He didn't stop. And he didn't give up.

It was personal now. It was done.

It was more than revenge.

It was a vendetta.

And the sound of his anguish trumpeted like a battle cry into the burning night.


End file.
